100 Prompts
by thewordsthatweareneeding
Summary: A series of Nico/Rachel based off of 100 prompts. Prompt #11: ROOFTOP
1. Crash

AN: So I came across a list of 100 drabble prompts, and I'm going to try to fill one every day. As of now, the plan is for most if not all to be Nico/Rachel. This one is a little weak, I apologize. I'm drowning in essays and internships and club stuff right now. The writing should get progressively better.

It was stupid. It was mortal. It was so, so human, and so ironic Nico might laugh about it if his chest was not so constricted he could hardly breathe_._

He watches as the mangled body of a girl with red hair is loaded onto a stretcher. Or maybe it is not red; maybe it's only blood-soaked. At this point Nico cannot tell anymore. He thinks the people in uniforms might be working to disentangle more bodies from the wreckage. He can't think clearly. The whole world is choking black smoke and twisted metal and blood he hopes is not hers.

Ten minutes ago, he sprinted all the way there, chasing after an explanation as to why her life aura had dropped so suddenly. A prophecy, he had assumed. But prophecies never lasted more than two minutes. Prophecies were not met by sirens and screams and screeching tires. He would trade anything for a prophecy right then, he thinks.

He cannot see her. He cannot hear her. He cannot even feel her anymore, not with so many people around, not with so many other life auras dwindling along with hers. Dwindling, but not extinguished yet. She is not dying. She is not dead. She will be okay. He focuses on the thought as he twists the skull ring nervously around his finger, craning his neck to see over the crowd. His stomach is churning and his chest is tight and his head is ringing. He will not feel himself again until he finds her, until he knows she is okay.

Of all the monsters there had been in the past few years, the demigods gone wrong, the vengeful gods, none of it had hurt Rachel Elizabeth Dare. Somehow, she had made it through the years relatively unscathed. Not to say that he did not worry about her nonetheless. He worries about her constantly, that she will be hurt or cursed or gods forbid killed by some mythical being. So of course, when something did happen (as it was always going to happen) it was the one thing he had never even considered. Of all things, it had to be _a car crash._ Something he could not fight off. Something he could not protect her from. Something nobody could or would have anticipated.

It was just so _typical._


	2. Dim

**AN: So the whole new-one-every-day thing didn't rrally work out. And it's only the second post, so kind of a bummer. But here is prompt #2: DIM.**

When the lights are dim, lines are blurred. Dark and light. Right and wrong. Him and her. They fuse together until it is impossible to tell the difference, or rather until neither Rachel nor Nico bother to try anymore.

There are no shadows. The lights in Rachel's apartment have this perfect setting where the room itself becomes a shadow; it is darker than daylight and brighter than night. The air in the room hangs stagnant and everything is hazy. He can see her silhouette, the smooth lines of her body, even the shape of her face and the smile playing at her lips as they capture his.

His fingers trace shapes on her soft, freckled skin. Hers twine in knots in his hair, pulling him closer, holding him firmly. He whispers her name against the line of her jaw and she responds with a soft moan. She feels lightheaded and jovial and she always wants more, always wants to pull him closer, always wants to stay that way longer. His mind goes takes on the same thick haze of the room and he always wants to savor it, always wants to kiss her deeper, always wants to run his hands down her arms and her sides and her cheeks and feel her shiver.

In the dim lighting, it feels, for once, as if it is just them. The sun god that looms over Rachel in all hours of the day, the threat of his disapproval in every ray of light that falls across her skin or takes up residence in her bright green eyes— he has no place in the dim room. The shadows that cling to Nico, the promise of the Underworld and his father and the darkness people draw away from— it is a distant memory when the lights are low and his lips find hers. Everything that makes them complicated, everything that makes them hesitant, fades into the background along with the other shadows when the lights are dim.

There is nothing but Nico and Rachel and the feel of her body pressed against his when the lights are dim.


	3. Futile

**AN: It's 2am but I haven't slept yet, do it counts as yesterday still, right? Thank you, by the way, for the kind reviews I've received. I really do appreciate them. I would respond, but I use the site on my iPod and just posting isdifficult enough; I haven't figured out how to do anything else yet.**

**Prompt #3, FUTILE**

When it came to Warren Dare, his way was the only option he saw. The man did not build his corporation by taking no for an answer. He did not make a name for himself by letting people do as they please. He did not remain successful by looking out for the concerns of others. And Warren Dare was the type of person who treated all aspects of life as if they were his corporation, even, and perhaps especially, his daughter.

It was a fact that Rachel Elizabeth Dare came to understand very early in life. Her father was persuasive. Her father was cunning. Her father could even be manipulative when necessary. But so could she. As she grew older, she grew more adept at refusing his offers or forcing him into compromises. By the time she was sixteen she prided herself on having become his equal.

She was wrong about many things when she was sixteen.

It was that lapse in judgment that allowed her to underestimate him and fall victim to his persuasion once again. She had only herself to blame for agreeing to attend the stupid banquet his company was holding, though that was no consolation to her. Perhaps the only comfort she had was that Nico would be at her side the entire time.

Nico himself had not wanted to go in the first place. It had taken nearly twenty minutes of pleading, her best pouting face, and the promise that they would leave as soon as possible for him to even consider it. It had taken him looking at her, disappointed, desperate, and full of dread, for his resolve to break and him to agree.

He was just as uneasy about the whole matter by the time the day came around. It was different for Rachel, he thought. For her, it was politics and pride; it was the rocky relationship with her parents and her disinterest in formal business interactions that kept her away. She had nothing to fear but a tedious night. He was the one who had to impress her parents, to explain to stranger after stranger where he was (or was not) working, why his shirt was wrinkled, what he was doing with Rachel. For him, a business banquet meant a night of ceaseless condescension and the constant fear that Rachel would look at him and start seeing what all of her father's colleagues saw when they looked at him. It was the last thing he wanted to do.

Nevertheless, he dug up a dress shirt and passably nice pants, trading in his leather jacket for a more formal choice he had to borrow from Percy. He ran a comb through his hair, adjusted his collar, and tried harder than he would like to admit to look nice for the people he would be meeting. And, more than anything else, for Rachel.

When he was all ready, he knocked on Rachel's door. She opened it, shoe in one hand, phone in the other, greeting him with a small wave as she tried to keep up a conversation with who Nico assumed was her father.

"We're leaving right now, Daddy. I'll see you in fifteen minutes," she spoke into the phone. When she hung up she turned to Nico and made a face, rolling her eyes and saying, "You know how he is. Resistance is always futile."

Nico shrugged and looked down at his feet before meeting her eyes. She smiled and took his hand before tiptoeing up and kissing him, instantly alleviating any dread he had left. When they broke apart, he looked at her and saw how natural she looked in her attire, how it suited her in a way that his dress shirt never could. He might have even been strangely intimidated if her hand was not still squeezing his gently.

And though he hated it, though it was the last place he would have wanted to be, he did not complain the entire night. Not even when they stayed twice as long as intended. Because every time he started to feel uneasy he would look at her and she would smile and his heart would jump into his throat, making it impossible for him to ever say no to her.

He would never tell her, but Nico always thought she was similar to her father in that one way; when it came to Rachel Elizabeth Dare, resistance was always futile.


	4. Erratic

Nico's fingers drummed on the arm of the couch in a steady rhythm. Seconds ticked away on the clock. Rachel's pen scratched furiously against a piece of paper. All else was silent.

And it was driving Nico crazy.

"Rachel," he said.

Her eyes shot up from her piece of paper, eyebrows furrowing as she shot him a glare. "What?"

"When you asked me to come over, I didn't think I would just be sitting and watching you do your homework the entire time."

"I didn't think it would take this long," she replied curtly. "But I didn't anticipate you would be interrupting so much."

At that, Nico rolled his eyes and slumped further into the couch cushions. As he fell silent, he doubled the force of his fingers, doubling the sound the drumming made as well. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rachel's shoulders tense.

"You know that doesn't exactly make it any easier to focus," she said.

Nico did not stop. He could feel her gaze on him, shooting daggers, but he did not turn. Soon he heard her mumbling to herself.

"The sweeping of our horses' manes/Showed us the wind and which way it blew, /But it-"

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Reading aloud," her tone was equal parts smug and aggravated. "Why, does it bother you?"

"No, I love poetry. Please, continue," he said, drawling out the words so that she knew he was sarcastic.

Nevertheless she continued, louder the second time. "But it was the aspens that gave it voice. /Swirling leaves, / Like erratic-"

"Ugh."

"Did you say something, di Angelo?"

"No, not at all. Don't let me keep you from your reading."

Rachel let out a soft huff of frustration. She shifted in her seat, somehow managing to make even that action look irritated. Nico clenched his jaw and leaned closer to her.

"Swirling leave,/ Like-" Rachel's voice trailed off as her eyes flitted upwards and suddenly she became acutely aware of just how close Nico was. Quickly, she cleared her throat and started again. "Like erratic-"

"Rachel," he said softly, his hand snaking up to grab the paper she was holding.

Stubborn as ever, she refused to look up and meet his eyes. She set her mouth in a thin line, her chin reflexively tilting up as her obstinacy increased.

"Like erratic-"

Swiftly, the poem she held was snatched away from her. She opened her mouth to give an indignant cry but was cut off by Nico's lips on hers. For a moment, she held still, remaining proud, but despite herself she found her arms looping around his neck, all thoughts of poetry or homework gone.

After he pulled away, he rested his forehead against hers.

"I'm sure we can find something more interesting to do than your homework," he said, still slightly breathless from their kiss. "For example, anything. At all. As long as it doesn't involve you reading stupid poetry-"

She mirrored his actions, cutting him off with a kiss. Her homework fell, disregarded, out of his hands and onto the floor.

"Ten more minutes," she said. "I'm nearly finished, I promise."

Nico groaned and slunk back into the cushions. Rachel, smirking, picked up her papers and returned to her task, heart still beating erratically in her chest.


	5. Shackled

**AN: I know, I know, I'm two weeks late. Butto have been unreasonably busy lately. It should calm down this weekend, but I can't promise to be very regular about my updates from now onward. Thank you for those of you who continue reading! **

* * *

PROMPT #5: Shackled

"Rachel?" on the other end of the line he heard heavy breathing, the echoing thud of shuffling footsteps, and shrill noises that were suspiciously reminiscent of muffled sirens.

"I need a favor."

* * *

Twenty minutes later Nico found himself walking into a room in the New York Police Department, following the directions given to him by a woman at the front desk. It was not long until he saw a familiar mop of red hair and a frown.

"What have you gotten yourself into this time, Dare?"

Rachel gave an indignant _humph_ before drawing herself up to full height and retorting. "_I_ didn't do anything but exert my right to peacefully protest. It's hardly my fault some idiots showed up and got out of control."

When she crossed her arms across her chest in a gesture of ire, Nico noticed the silver handcuffs chaining her to the chair in which she sat. His eyebrows immediately shot straight up.

"They've got you shackled?" he said. "Gods, I'm not too sure I feel comfortable around such a dangerous criminal."

Rachel rolled her eyes. "Could you spare me the sarcasm until after I'm released?"

"Fair enough."

Dealing with the officers was simpler than Nico had anticipated. Apparently, they were all too eager to get rid of the venomous redhead who had been raving about her unlawful arrest and claiming her lawyer would have a lot to say since the moment she had stepped into the building. Nico noticed the presiding officer's eyes flitting anxiously to Rachel and back to her release forms over and over again. Nico did not blame him. He had been at the receiving end of one of Rachel's spiteful rants before, and had seen the spitfire go off on one too many people not to pity anyone who had to suffer her wrath.

He was more amused than anything, however. Many times Rachel Elizabeth Dare had implied he was the more likely of the two to run afoul of the law, joking that some day he would need her to bail him out and she would refuse. It was satisfying to be on the other end of it when the event actually arose. Rachel could see from the smug look on his face that she would never hear the end of it.

But when all was taken care of and they were permitted to leave, he did nothing but grin at her as she furrowed her eyebrows and rubbed her sore wrists.

"What?" she finally asked.

"Nothing."

"What is it, Nico?"

His grin widened, so much so that she found herself thinking of the Cheshire cat from Alice in Wonderland. "Handcuffs suit you."


	6. Broken

BROKEN

* * *

There was no fine line between a dream and a vision. Every night they overtook her just the same. Rachel would close her eyes and drift away, and more often than not, her thoughts would turn dark and violent as if a poison was spreading through them, slowly but surely withering everything good her imagination could muster. The worst part was waking up and not knowing whether what she had seen would happen or if it was her own imagination driving her crazy.

When she asked Apollo about it, he said that the Spirit picked up on aspects of the future like a radio finding a wave and broadcasting it, amplifying it, mixing it in with memories of the past. Most of what she saw was imprints of horrible things past Oracles had seen, intermingling with potential futures the Fates were still playing with. When she slept, her own spirit became submissive and the Spirit played a more dominant role in her thoughts, taking up residence in her mind and showing her what to fear.

Because it was in her mind, it was influenced by her own feelings. That was what Apollo had said. The benefit to that was that when Rachel had begun spending hours chasing thoughts of Nico out of her head before falling asleep; she was left less vulnerable to the prophetic nightmares. Her thoughts were of him, of the days they spent together, of the things they did together. It left little room for destruction to cast its shadow over her dreams.

The day he kissed her, she slept soundly for the first time in months. The following night, she slept just as well. The streak continued for an unprecedented thirteen consecutive days. Not long enough for her to believe she was rid of the dreams, but certainly long enough for her to grow comfortable. She caught up on sleep. She rested easily. She worried less.

When the night visions returned, it felt like they came out of nowhere. It had been a typical day. She was given no reason to believe they would return that night, or that they would return with such vigor. Rachel simply closed her eyes and felt her power slip away as she drifted off. Everything was dark and black and thick and green and hazy. Images came in flashes, sounds tore away as quickly as they came, feelings brushed past like a thousand fingertips sliding around her, some soft and some sharp. Nothing made sense for more than a moment. She saw a shadow, heard a laugh, and smelled something leathery and familiar. She saw a body, heard a scream, and tasted blood in her mouth. Nico, she thought and said and felt, the realization coming without her knowing where it came from. Then the image came. His body, pale. His body, still. His body, cold.

She woke up trembling with the taste of bile rising in her throat. Even after she regained composure and her breath had slowed to a steady rhythm, she could not sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw it again.

His body, _broken._

She felt as if something small and hopeful in her might break as well.


	7. Push

Prompt #8: Push

******A/N: Although this is the part of Nico/Rachel prompt series I'm doing, it's more implied in this drabble. This one is mostly set-up for why Rachel/Nico (or Rachel/anyone to be honest) would be allowed to happen. Also, I'm aware this is the seventh chapter, but I'm listing it as prompt 8 bevausepi have already posted prompt 7. It's just that prompt 7 turned out to be suuuper long so I posted it separately (it's listed as The Way Times Change, prompt 7 was "fight,").**

Apollo took a deep breath before raising a hesitant hand to knock on Rachel's door. He rapped his knuckles against the wood twice, letting his hand dangle in midair for a moment before falling to fiddle nervously with the hem of his shirt. He always hated this part. He always hoped someday a host for the Oracle would break the pattern, observing the rules so quickly he would not have to show up at her door and play the part of the stern, vengeful god.

Rachel opened the door with a grin that quickly faded as she realized who her visitor was. "Lord Apollo," she blinked as if in disbelief, her face quickly paling, "You never knock. You always just walk in and- Why did you-…."

The young girl trailed off, waiting for him to grin and make some stupid, juvenile remark or finish her sentences as he usually did. He just stood there, frowning, allowing the feeling of dread to accrue in her stomach. After another moment passed, she straightened up and set her mouth in a thin, determined line.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

"We need to talk," he said solemnly, stepping inside her apartment.

An hour later, he was in a chair across from her feeling especially proud of himself for managing not to cringe throughout the discussion. Rachel, on the other hand, sat with her face in her hands, letting out cries of indignation, mortification, and amusement every time he paused in his lecture. It seemed a sign to Apollo that he ought to draw their talk to a close.

"That being said, I want you to remember how important it is to uphold the vows you swore to me," he said. "You are to remain a virgin so long as you host the Spirit. That means no boys…creeping into your apartment in the middle of the night─"

"That was _one time_ and it was just to─"

"No exceptions."

The serious look on his face silenced her. He was never serious; he was Apollo. He laughed and joked and teased, but he never yelled. He never sat her down and lectured her about the sanctity of vows or the role she played. Seeing him so somber was enough to make her agree to his demands…but perhaps, not enough to make her completely compliant.

"I intend to keep my vows," she said. "I'll stay a virgin, I promise you that. But if Nico needs to come over at 3am to pick up something he left here…"

Apollo opened his mouth to ask why his things were in her apartment in the first place, but the glare she shot him was enough to remind him that Rachel Elizabeth Dare did not take kindly to being interrupted.

"…then he can do that. As long as I'm upholding my vows, it doesn't matter, right?"

He looked at her for a long moment after she had spoken. That was exactly why he hated giving that speech; she had a good point. All that mattered was that she was a virgin, in truth. If she wanted to have friends, to date, to do essentially anything short of the final act, he could hardly complain. She was maintaining her promise. But that did not mean he was comfortable with the idea. There had to be rules, there had to be regulations. He could not sit there and let her make the rules.

Just when he had decided what to say, Rachel looked at him beseechingly. "Please, Apollo? I have to have _some_freedom."

The sun god let out a strangled groan of frustration. With those words and the expression she gave him, his resolve crumbled, as it had every other time he tried to set boundaries with the other Oracles. He ran his fingers through his hair and let out a final sigh before sitting up straight and making his tone as authoritative as possible.

"Fine. But _don't push it_."


	8. Alive

**AN: I'd really appreciate opinions on this one simply because I'm really iffy about it. I wanted to emphasize the contrast between Rachel and Nico in the basic life vs. death sense, but I wanted to do it while avoiding the super-vampire-zombie trope Nico gets lumped into a lot, and I'm not sure howsuccessful I was. I tried to keep it tame in the same way Percy is connected to water, and the effect of the underworld being just an amplified version of the effect it would have on anyone. If I went too far, please let me know.**

**PROMPT #9: ALIVE**

Nico always felt an innate pull towards the Underworld; it was the source of his power, and in a way, his home. Too much time without a visit would leave him physically drained. He needed to pop in, even just for a minute, every couple of weeks or his head would begin to throb, his skin would grow sallow, his reflexes would become sluggish, and he would feel so weak.

But even then, he much preferred it to the side effects of spending too much time below the mortal world.

While the mortal world drained him physically, the Underworld drained him mentally and emotionally. He soon learned that the longer he spent with the dead, the colder and stiffer he acted, as if he himself were the living dead or─ gods forbid─ like his father. Being the child of Hades, he already had a darkness of sorts within him, an inclination to lose touch with emotion, a tendency to withdraw. It was a side of himself he tried to starve in hopes of beating it down, as he had grown to resent it as he grew older. The Underworld, however, fed it and nurtured it until it overtook him without his notice.

The first time it happened scared him more than he could explain, even if he tried. He had been caught up in performing tasks for his father, finding a reason to stay every time he prepared himself to leave. After four days, he noticed that even the coldest parts of Hades felt warm to him. After a week, he realized he had lost track of what day it was entirely. After that, the changes became more profound. The most glaring of all, to him, was that he stopped feeling the rare stab of compassion for the souls he assisted and caught himself on more than one occasion thinking of them with the same detached obligation with which his father regarded them. He felt constantly light and strong and dark, the same way he felt when he shadowtraveled and the shadows became extensions of him.

One moment he was fine and then the next everything was too gray, too quiet, and too lifeless and he could not stand still. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and shadowtraveled to the first place he thought of. When he opened his eyes, the light was too blinding to see for just a moment until he adjusted. A strange song filled the room, blaring so that it was all Nico could do not to cover his ears. The smell of paint in the air overcame him, immediately keying him in to which room he had appeared in.

He turned around to see Rachel peering at him over her easel, her concerned face streaked haphazardly with paint. Immediately he stumbled towards her. Reflexively she held out her arms and he collapsed into her, against her, around her; so disoriented was he that the only thing he was sure of was the firm pressure of her arms wrapped around him. He hunched over and buried his face into the crook of her neck, closing his eyes and breathing in the scent of her.

"Nico," her voice was barely a whisper, as quizzical as it was relieved.

Nico said nothing. He remained that way for a long moment, focusing on her soft touch and the rhythm of her breathing. She was so warm, so solid, so _alive. _And he needed her to keep him stable, as he needed the Underworld to keep him strong.


	9. Game

Prompt #10: Game

Nico sipped his coffee warily as Rachel glared at him from across the table. A moment earlier, she had stormed into the room carrying a slightly misshapen cardboard box, slammed it on the table, and crossed her arms as plastic game pieces spilled onto the table.

"What is this?" he asked after a moment.

The tone of his voice suggested he was only asking to humor her, which only fueled the anger that was quickly building up inside her.

"This," she said, "is Monopoly."

"And why is it here?"

"We are going to play it."

He let out a derisive snort as he placed his mug down in front of him. The look he shot Rachel was one of sardonic amusement, as if to say, _do you really expect me to play _that_?_ It made her tremble with indignation so that she clenched her teeth and balled her hands up into fists to keep herself from responding.

From the moment she woke up that morning, Nico had been driving her crazy. She had walked downstairs only to find him sitting at the table, downing cup after cup of coffee, mumbling excuses about how he had never gone to bed that night. When she offered to make breakfast, he made some offhand comment about how he would rather not eat at all than eat _he_r cooking. When she started talking about her studies, his eyes glazed over and he tuned her out. When she asked how he had been, he responded in curt, one-word answers until she gave up altogether. And worst of all, he moaned and groaned and grumbled nonstop about how _bored_ he was until it was all she could do not to shout at him.

Of course, this was nothing new to them. Every time they spent too much time apart, their reunion was marred by their difficult temperaments. Rachel and Nico had grown so accustomed to each other, so absorbed in their happy routine, that they did not know how to be around each other after their routine was broken. When Nico had to go to camp, or Rachel had to visit her parents, or anything drove them apart from each other, they returned feeling foreign to each other, not knowing how to behave anymore. Both knew why the tension was there, but they never addressed it. It was easiest just to take it out on each other until they fell back into their routine. But three weeks without seeing each other disrupted their relationship so much that Rachel found herself wishing Nico would leave again, or at least stop smirking at her like the thought of playing a board game was the most ridiculous concept he had ever been confronted with.

"Choose a piece, di Angelo. We're playing," she told him, shoving aside everything on the table in order to unfold the game board.

Forty-five minutes later, Nico was glaring at Rachel for an entirely different reason.

"You're cheating," he said.

"Nico, nobody cheats at Monopoly."

"You do. That or you purposely chose a game you knew I would be bad at or something."

"Six year olds play this game, Nico. You can't expect anyone to be bad at it."

The tone of her voice as she smiled too sweetly at him only made Nico more certain that the odds were stacked against him. She was too confident, too smug, too satisfied with herself for him to accept defeat. Bitterness brewed in his stomach until he could practically feel his fatal flaw tugging at the back of his mind, rising slowly but surely to the surface. He hated losing, but most of all, he hated dealing with Rachel after she won. Desperately, he racked his brain for a battle-plan to pull together a victory. Then, of course, he remembered it was Monopoly and that strategy would do him no good.

"It's your turn, Nico," said Rachel. "Unless, you decided to give up?"

A dark look crossed his face and for a moment, she expected him to flip the table over and storm away, or throw some sort of tantrum. Instead, he reached across the table, twined his fingers firmly in her hair, and kissed him. She froze in confusion before giving in to him, smiling against his lips for a moment before kissing him back. In her frustration, she had forgotten how much she had missed him when he was gone. But with his hands in her hair and his lips on hers and his familiar scent so close and so known to her, it hardly seemed important to her that he had been irritable only moments ago.

That is, until she pulled away and saw his game piece in an entirely different place on the board than it had been before.

"Nico di Angelo, you filthy cheater," she said, slightly proud of how outraged she could sound when she felt so breathless.

"Nobody cheats at Monopoly, Rachel," he leaned back in his chair and grinned, and if she had ever been uncertain, she knew in that moment, exasperated as she was, that she never wanted him to leave for so long again.


	10. Rooftop

**AN: Sorry for the long break! I've completely lost inspiration for the prompts list I've been using and had to find a new one. If you're reading this, thanks for your continued support.**

**PROMPT #11: ROOFTOP**

Nico stood at the rooftop's edge, staring down at a city of shadows and smoke, the artificial lights of all of New York's buildings shining up and giving him a headache. Or worsening his headache, more accurately. To be completely honest, the throbbing pain had started at least an hour ago, around the same time dinner was served and Rachel's dad's associate's cousin's daughter's friend had somehow managed to mistake Nico di Angelo for someone who wanted to listen to a stranger whine about their cat incessantly.

"I thought I'd find you out here."

Nico tensed, but did not turn. He knew it was Rachel standing behind him. Not because he knew her voice as well as his own, not because he was well acquainted with the sensation of her eyes on the back of his head, not because her footsteps made a sound so familiar to him they were unmistakable. Because nobody else would have noticed he was gone, let alone cared enough to go after him.

After a long pause in which Nico made no response, Rachel walked closer, sidling in next to him, leaning against the railing.

"We're not doing this," she said softly.

"Doing what?"

"The rooftop scene. The pivotal point of every hackneyed romcom the world has ever seen."

Nico scoffed and leaned further forward, eyes dead set on a point in the distance. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh come on, you know. The misunderstood, handsome love interest feels out of place and sneaks away to the rooftop, closely followed by his doting, but oblivious, girlfriend, where they have a passionate discussion about their feelings," she spoke the words carefully, shifting her tone from playful to bitter to sarcastic; whatever she thought Nico wanted to hear at the time.

"I'm not interested in a _passionate discussion about feelings_."

"I know. That's why I said we're not doing this."

Nico let out a low grunt that Rachel took to be something between affirmation and amusement. Sighing, she leaned closer to him and rested her head against her shoulder. After some time he relaxed and wound his arm around her.

"I'm sorry I made you come. I know these…banquets or whatever aren't really your thing. Not that they're my thing, I just meant, I know how much you hate coming, and…" she trailed off, looking up at him to gauge his reaction.

"It's okay."

Rachel sighed. Nico had always been a man of few words when he was brooding about something, and she'd gotten used to it. But it was still difficult to move past when she felt guilty for dragging him into her problems and she knew he was angry, possibly even with her, and every moment that passed in silence heightened her anxiety until she would have preferred if he was yelling or throwing a tantrum or something. Anything. As long as he broke the thick tension the stretched between them and made him feel so distant.

"How do they end?"

Rachel jumped at the sound of his voice, looking up in confusion. "What?"

"The rooftop scenes."

"Oh," she gave a small, slow smile. "Well, it depends on the movie. Usually, someone either leaves in a huff, or…"

"Or what?" At last he turned to look at her, his mouth set in an expressionless line, but his eyes soft and amused.

"Or we say we love each other and you kiss me."

"Hmm," he leaned forward, tightening his hold on her waist and pausing only when their lips were inches apart. "Good thing we're not doing the whole rooftop scene thing, then."

Rachel rolled her eyes and laughed despite herself before saying, low and playful, "Shut up, Nico," and kissing him.


End file.
